


Love You Hard

by 2x2verse (agent_florida)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bondage, Dom/sub, Light BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-28
Updated: 2011-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-26 15:14:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_florida/pseuds/2x2verse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So we all know Karkat would be a hissy, spitty, bratty little sub, right? He probably wouldn't have any problem with being flogged to within an inch of his life. But cuddling would be a hard limit. So enter Dom John. Pushing Karkat out of his comfort zone with petting, kissing, hugging, whispers of "good boy"--breaking Karkat down with kindness and finally, finally actually getting him to unclench his iron grip on control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love You Hard

At first, it’s hard for you to explain to John what you want. Your self-hatred carries across to your relationships, and you’re far more comfortable when there’s at least a baseline of animosity there. Even though your feelings for Egbert have definitely edged into the very, very flushed, there are still things you need from him, things you can’t do without.

Your blood, for instance. You’re a fucking disgrace of a mutant, and you like being reminded of that fact. Every time John doodles your blasphemous symbol on your body with the point of a knife, you’re exhilarated at the surge of adrenaline that comes from such intense physical and psychological punishment of yourself.

Another thing you can’t do without? Scratching, biting, roughhousing. You love the teeth marks, the nail gouges, the bruises that you find, some of them not coming into full bloom until days after. John takes a sort of savage pleasure in marking you like that; after each one he hisses ‘mine,’ and the tone of his voice makes your expanding and contracting vascular system go a little sideways in your chest cavity.

The only thing John did naturally at first was the hair pulling, but now it’s even more vicious than it was before. It’s not unusual for you to feel a migraine coming on just minutes after an orgasm, he’s yanked on your skull so hard during your play. And your horns – now that he knows how sensitive they really are, he likes to fist them while he thrusts into you, use them as perverse handles to keep you in your place.

The one thing you will never accept from him is aftercare. No, you curl in on yourself and lick your wounds like a cat, preferring the soft, sticky embrace of spoor slime to soothe your irritations and cleanse your skin rather than John’s body heat and heavy hands and soft, concerned tones. You like to think that he’s just as authoritative out of play as in, and it ruins the illusion for you when he softens like that.

You need him to be hard edges, tough to reason with, stubborn and demanding. You don’t need to see his weaknesses – his compassion. You don’t want to catch friendship or even, ugh, love from him. Your quadrant is just fine the way it is, thank you, and you’d really like if he didn’t mess it up.

He does wheedle you every now and then about not letting him take care of you. “You look awful! Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”

“If I didn’t want it, I wouldn’t have asked for it, nookstain.” Your reply is rehearsed, but when your voice is that hoarse from screaming and your mind is that blank from what he does to you, it’s a wonder there are any words in your head at all. He always manages to fuck the capslock out of you, which should be an achievement in itself.

What really surprises you, though, is when one day, he steps into your playspace with restraints in his hands. The initiative he’s taking is enough to make you raise an eyebrow. “Wow, somebody exited out the kinky hole of the recuperacoon today,” you snark from where you’re kneeling, shirtless, in the middle of the spare bedroom.

You aren’t supposed to speak until spoken to. The slap he delivers to your face is halfhearted, a warning. You and he both know that if you really wanted smacked around, you’d have said something much more offensive, but he’s still obligated to punish you for your transgressions. “What is that even supposed to…?”

He chuckles, forcing his thumb past your lips to get under your tongue and hold your lower jaw down. Your explanation-retort comes out as ‘mmhmmhmmnnhn’ with your mouth forced open like this.

“Oh. Woke up on the kinky side of the bed,” he translates for you. “Yeah, I guess!” Why does he always have to be so goddamned perky and enthusiastic about everything? “I saw some pictures and – I hope this is okay! I just wanted to try this! Something new every once in a while.”

‘Harnnrhnnrm,’ comes out against his hand again. He doesn’t need to know what it means to know that you’re excited about it – your bulge is already half-hard, outlined in the cloth of your trousers.  You delight in the shiver of his fingers as your tongue moves against his thumb. It’s the little things that you’ve come to notice most of all.

He pulls you forward, yanks you towards the bed, and you end up sprawled on your stomach over the surface of the mattress. John eventually persuaded you that fucking on a human recuperacoon would be much better for the overall experience, and damn him, he was right. The pain is more controlled this way; there’s less chance of an accidental hit or graze when the weight of your stuffed animal pile shifts under the two of you, and here, he can have you spread out, the whole of your chest or back on display for him to mark.

You know better than to move or speak from where he’s thrown you. He’s surprisingly strong, for a dweeb. Zillyhoo did the best things imaginable to his physique, now more filled out, muscular, rugged. His arms, especially, are strong, and his grip is to die for, whether it’s around your throat or around your bulge. In no time, John’s over you, flipping you onto your back and straddling your waist, pinning your wrists to the bed. You struggle against him for the pleasure of it and are rewarded with a swift bite to the exposed part of your neck.

The smile you feel against your skin when you moan is delectable. He loves that sound, and you love making it for him. “Karkat.” His voice is surprisingly gentle. When he uses your name like this, he needs to ask you a serious question that’s outside of playspace, and you pay attention, making sure you keep eye contact with him through those absurd black-framed glasses. “Can I tie you up?”

This is one place where you’re allowed to say no, where what you want matters. Your interest is piqued, though, and like hell if you’re not going to pursue this to its ultimate end. “Make it tight.”

“Yes, sir, Mister Vantas, sir.” Another sucking hickey to the space right below your ear, and then he’s pulling back, climbing off your body to pull your arms into place. “Do not move unless I tell you to.”

Yes, there’s the leader you know, bossing you around like it’s his job. You try to watch his fingers to determine what kind of knots he’s tying with that cord, but the rope is moving too fast. “Slow down, I can’t see,” you whine.

He doesn’t just slow down, he stops entirely, looking at you with such disdain on his face that you wonder how often he had to practice that in the mirror to get it down just right. The expression is like a punch to the chest, putting you back in your place. “Don’t tell me what to do.” Even his tone is dark.

He knows how to do this just how you like. You swallow a whimper and nod. When he gets back to work, though, he’s going marginally slower, keeping his hands mostly out of the way so you can see the way the cord is circling your wrist and lashing it to the headboard. It’s not like you understand how he’s doing it, though. “Boy Scouts,” he helpfully narrates for you. “My knot-tying badge was the first one I ever got. Move your arm for me.” You yank, hard, but you can’t pull your hand down from where he has you immobile. “Good,” and the sound is a purr in his throat.

It takes a little less time for him to truss up the other arm, but even now, you’re breathing faster, senses heightened in anticipation. Wow, you are… really fucking vulnerable like this. And so far, you like it. He could do anything to your bare chest with you like this – candlewax gathering in the space where your navel would be, whip marks crisscrossing over your torso, even picking off the scabs of old wounds. Though you don’t like taking the force on your chest, John knows how much you like being whipped.

But no, John just sits there and stares. Fucking stares at you, your chest heaving, stomach tightening, teeth trying to bite through your lip. Being pinned under his gaze, treated like an object of his, is so intense, and he can obviously see what it’s doing to you.

What he does next, though, totally surprises you. He runs a fingertip down your cheek, gentle and sure, and sighs, “You’re being so good for me.”

He’s never said anything like that to you before. No one really has, come to think of it. All the burdens you bear for the rest of the trolls, the responsibility that’s laid on your shoulders, and no one ever thanks you for it. But John knows how hard it is, how heavy it feels, and he’s telling you exactly what you need to hear. Then again, this is getting way too close to touchy-feely for you, and it makes your gut clench in anticipation of the inevitable backhand he’s going to deliver. Any second now. Aaaaaaaaany second now.

But he doesn’t. He just traces the outlines of your face with his warm fingertip, running it over your brow ridge, down your nose, across your cheekbone, along your jaw. His whole hand comes next, going up to thread through your hair. Just finger combing it, not pulling it – another surprise. “So obedient,” John says, low and throaty.

Your all of you is trembling, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for something you’ll do that will mess everything up and turn this scene brutal. But no, you close your eyes and your frame locks up. There is a reason you don’t like it when John does these things. It makes you have **~Feelings~**. It compromises the safety of the entire group. And especially these kinds of feelings – they transgress the quadrants, reach out into something more comprehensive. Friendship. Even that stupid ‘I love you’ phrase that John says to you every time.

“Shh,” John urges you. You quiet the whine you didn’t notice was starting in your throat. He straddles you again, and it’s all you can do not to cant your hips up under him to get all the friction you can out of the contact. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay, KitKat, shh.” Wow, kinky bastard much? He’s bringing moirallegiance into bed! Pale doesn’t mix with black or red! It’s practically a proverb, you’ve been brought up with it since birth, and here comes this – this –

This stupid fleshy pink apebeast that you created, and he’s so beautiful like this, with his blue, blue eyes half-lidded behind his glasses and his lips far too plump and glossy. He cups your face in one of his large, calloused hands and lays the softest kiss on your lips. You’re fairly certain your chest is trying to explode. These aren’t **~Feelings~** you’re supposed to be having, not all these colors mashed together, and you want to hate him and you want to pity him and you can’t, you just can’t, those words aren’t enough for what this is.

You try to kiss back, but he pulls away before you can come on too strongly. What he does instead is even more infuriating:  he leaves a series of kisses on your face, a gentle press of his mouth to your eyebrow, eyelid, temple, cheek, and then back to your ear. His hands won’t stop petting along the arms he has bound. “You are such a good boy,” he whispers before sucking on your earlobe.

Not okay. This is way too tender for you. This is pushing every kind of limit you didn’t know you had, and it’s taking all your self-control just to be obedient for him. You can feel the heat from the palms of his hands as they hover over your chest, and then he’s kissing his way down your throat, across your adam’s apple, to the hollow between your collarbones and then along the ridge of one.

“John,” you huff out, voice coming out in a stage whisper. Then a little louder, but still tremulous: “John.” It isn’t quite ‘Minnesota Vikings’, but it ought to get his attention before things get out of hand.

He pulls back so fast you nearly get whiplash. His hair is ruffled, his glasses askew on his face, and at hearing his name, a tiny blush is shining high up on his cheeks. “What’s wrong, KitKat?”

Damn him. You don’t want to explain yourself. He should know by now that being treated like this – like you’re worth something to somebody – makes you deeply uncomfortable. “You don’t have to do this,” you settle on.

“I want to,” he tells you firmly. There’s a flash of his trickster’s smile on his face before he gets back to work, petting your sides over and over as he presses his mouth to your skin. He particularly pays attention to the places he’s hurt you badly before:  the friction mark high on your chest still there from last week, the bruise at the bottom of your ribcage where he flogged you maybe a little too hard, the Cancer symbol gouged so deep on your hip that you know it’s left a scar by now.

Your eyes are closed by now out of a sense of obedience. If you have all five senses open right now, you’ll be overwhelmed – best to cut one out now while you still can. It still doesn’t stop you from hearing the satisfied rumble in John’s throat, from feeling his mouth and his hands on you, from inhaling the soft fragrance of pine needles in mountain air that clings to John as a reminder of his home. “Please,” and you’re not sure what you’re begging for.

He starts to pull your trousers down, and then you’re naked, your bulge exposed for him. You can already feel the wetness seeping from the tip, you’re so aroused. Damn John being able to push all your buttons. Fuck him, fuck him so hard. “You deserve this,” he says quietly, his breath a hot fog against your length.

And then he takes it into his mouth.

Fucking hell, that is perverted. Trolls don’t do that to one another. Why would he want to do it to you? His teeth are going to fucking bite it off, razor your bulge to shreds, tear you apart. Then you feel the stupid nubs of his little filed-down blunt human omnivore teeth, those stupid buck teeth, those stupid, endearing buck teeth, and a thrill runs down your spine. You’re both excited and disappointed that he can’t hurt you.

He sucks, hard, and thought falls out of your head altogether.

The sound you make rumbles in your chest and pushes out of your throat without your permission, and John – fuck him, fuck him – actually giggles, the sound stuck in his mouth and reverberating through your bulge as he keeps his mouth on you. He has to bring up his hands to press your hips back down into the mattress, because your instinct is to thrust up into wet heat, to take his mouth and make it your own, to fuck his throat until he can’t laugh at you like that.

When he pulls off, you mewl at the loss of sensation. You open your eyes and look down, and holy fucking troll Jegus, he has his ass in the air and his fingers working himself open even as he works on you. A surge of lubricating genetic fluid comes from the tip of your bulge, and John diligently licks it away. “Not yet,” he reminds you, “not yet,” and oh, the devoted look in his face makes you want to cry with the intensity of all of your ridiculous human **~Feelings~**.

One last slurp of his tongue on you and then he’s repositioning himself. This – no, this isn’t how things go for the two of you, he’s the one that’s supposed to be taking you, abusing you, fucking you until you can’t walk, why, why would he –

“Shh,” he says again, absurdly petting your face as he gets his knees on either side of your chest again. He reaches behind himself to position you how he wants, and then he’s nestled on top of it, pressing down while you tip up and for a moment you’re sure this isn’t working because he won’t give, he’s too tight, there’s no way.

The very tip of your bulge manages to breach him and you both gasp at the feeling. You know how John feels, stretched and full and yet still needing more, but this is new for you, the clenching heat that practically invites you in, guiding your shallow movements. He sinks down a little more and there’s another hitch in breathing. “Fuck – fuck, fucking – fuck!” is all you have the capacity to say.

Once your hips are nestled together, John stays still for a moment, ostensibly getting used to the sensation. His hands are everywhere, soothing your arms, your aching shoulders, your face, your neck, your chest, running through your hair and massaging at your horns. When he rocks forward to press a kiss to your lips, he makes a small, exquisite cry that tastes delicious to you. “You’re so good, KitKat, such a good boy…”

He rolls his hips, and while it doesn’t change the depth, it changes the pressure. Your eyes roll back in your head as he keeps moving, and he presses his open, sloppy mouth to each of your eyebrows in turn as he starts to work himself up into a pattern, a rhythm. Tidal, constant, natural, and you move with him, against him, trying to remember how to breathe.

What really undoes you, though, is when he takes his glasses off – John, who is never without his glasses, John, who needs that symbol of authority through all of your play, John, who is giving up his sight for you. He leans back, bracing himself with his hands splayed out across your chest, and looks down at you, his blue eyes soft around the edges. “I can still see you,” he reassures you before he pulls himself up and then slams back down shallowly, “but I know you’re beautiful anyway.”

You want to yell at him for saying such obviously untrue things, rage at him, hiss and spit and curse, but when he bounces on you again, any criticism you might have had turns only to “more, more, more, fuck!” His movements come quicker, more forceful now, and you meet him halfway, thrusting up as he comes crashing down, pulling out as he holds himself up with trembling thighs.

Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, and belatedly you realize that that’s exactly what you’re doing, rising up to meet him with determined, powerful thrusts while your chest threatens to crack under the weight of his hands and his love. “Love you,” John is murmuring whenever he has some breath to spare, “love you, love you, so good, shh, Kitkat, shh…”

It’s only when he starts petting at you again that you realize you’re shaking with all of the **~Feelings~** you’re trying to tamp down at his onslaught. “I can’t, I can’t,” you babble frantically, bucking underneath him.

He slams down onto you and doesn’t get back up, holding you to the mattress with the force of his hips. “You can,” he tells you, “you will, I know you already do, it’s okay, I mean it, it’s okay, Kitkat…” His fingers push your hair off of your forehead, his other hand pulling your head up so he can press your foreheads together.

It’s this small gesture that breaks you. Never before during play have you actually started crying – real, full-on sobbing, not just the leaking from your eyes that comes after a particularly painful hit. It’s the most cathartic feeling in the entire world. And the best part is that he lets you, just lets you, holding you close and continuing to move against you while leaving little kisses on the corner of your mouth.

“Love you,” and he won’t stop saying it, not now that he’s gutted you and flayed you open with kindness alone, “love you, love you, fuck, KitKat, you feel so good, you’re so good, God I love you…” His bucking and bouncing gets more insistent, and your sobs redouble at the heightened intensity. “Fuck, I’m… KitKat, ‘m gonna come…”

When he peaks, he clamps down around you. Filthy fucker won’t even use a bucket, he just jizzes right on your stomach. It’s oddly intimate, in a way, that he wants to mark you like this, at least something you can take away. If he doesn’t want you to use him like a pail, though, he’s going to have to pull off right the fuck now or you’re gonna lose it. “Don’t – don’t make me…” He usually doesn’t keep a bucket nearby, but then again, usually he’s not the one riding you.

He leans down to whisper in your ear. “Come for me.”

What can you do but obey? You both howl as you release spurt after spurt of your genetic material in him. Most of it drips out of him, down your bulge and past your shame globes and into the crack of your ass before puddling cold underneath you. John’s blushing heavily now; you can only imagine how full he must feel with this much inside him. It just keeps coming and coming, your bulge pulsing more than it ever has before.

It leaves you feeling like you’ve had the rug pulled out from under your legs. John pulls off; a torrent rushes out of him and stains the mattress further. Filthy. Your filthy filthy, matesprit, Gog, look at him, all fuck-dazed like that. His hair’s rumpled in about fifty places and his eyes aren’t quite open and aren’t quite shut and his mouth won’t close entirely and he keeps running his tongue across his lower lip and his skin is stained with the red of your genetic fluid and you wish you could keep him like this forever, yours just as much as you’re his.

Effortlessly he reaches up to undo your bondage, helping to ease your arms back down to your sides and massage some of the blood flow back into them. You curl into yourself and he pets you softly, hand running down your spine again and again, down and then back up. His legs tangle with yours, and he holds you as close as he can. You can hear the beating of his flimsy human heart with your ear pressed to his chest like this. “John?”

“Hmm?”

“You pushed a limit.”

“I know.” He runs his hands through your hair, trying to calm it; he reaches for your hand and pulls it up, encouraging you to do the same for him. “Next time I won’t push so hard.”

His hair is surprisingly soft, and you can get it to stick up in tufts, wet with sex-sweat. If you weren’t so worn out, you’d laugh at how absurdly gaga he looks right now. Gaga for you. It’s a powerful feeling, being the object of his fixation. “Or you could not push at all,” you grumble. He’ll still do it anyway, so your complaint is negligible.

He kisses your forehead, then pulls away. “You can leave if – if you want.” He’s trying to be strong, but you know he likes this part of it, the holding you down while your body tries to run away with you.

“Nah,” you sigh. You stretch out and roll over, pulling his arm with you when you go and draping it over your waist like a blanket. “I’m a lazy fuckass right now. I think I’ll stay.”

His hum of happiness is audible, and he presses a sloppy kiss to the bone that sticks out at the base of your neck. The seam where your bodies press together is sticky and slick, but you won’t give up this feel. Not now. You need his warmth, more healing than any sopor slime. You need his love.


End file.
